Page 8 of Wicked Little Secret

Her drowsy tone disappears. Scorn takes its place. “I’ve stooped low? You’re one to talk.”

“I never keyed your car!”

“So what? You wasted how many years of my life?”

“I wasn’t aware that’s a crime!”

“You make yourself a victim every time,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve ever met another person with zero self-awareness like you. Ever think this is karma paying you back?”

“Veronica, if I find out you keyed my fucking car?—”

“Goodbye, Theron. Don’t call me again. We’re done, remember? Your words.”

The line goes dead.

When I try to redial her number, I’m sent straight to voicemail. My knuckles whiten from how tightly I’m gripping the phone, waiting for the beep.

“You fucking bitch,” I rage the second the recording starts. “You really think you’ll get away with this? You think I’m not about to hold you accountable? Just wait and see.”

The recording cuts me off before I can finish the rest of my rant.

I howl in anger and hurl my phone across the room. Not the most rational decision considering it smashes into the antique brass scales of justice perched on my wall shelf. An heirloom that’s been in my family for decades. The scales tumble to the ground with a violent clang.

My rage only intensifies. I release a second howl like some feral beast.

A rarity for me. But the explosion is warranted.

Veronica knows exactly what she’s doing.

She knows I’ll never go to the police. She’s aware this will have to be handled between the two of us.

That’s exactly what she wants.

Instead of a clean, amicable break up, she wants to prolong the toxicity.

I force calming breaths through my lungs and remind myself I won’t give it to her.

Her passion and unpredictability are what kept me coming back for more in the past. From the time we were in college, we were back and forth, on again and then off again.

We’d even gottenengaged.

I collect my phone off the floor and call the only real friend I have—my sister, Theo.

The one person I can trust in this world.

Theo is the type of loyal that would have her showing up at three a.m. to bury a body. No questions asked.

“Calling me before business hours? You must be in trouble, bro.”

I grit my teeth. “Veronica keyed my car.”

“Again? Didn’t she key your last car? The Mercedes?”

“That was the broken window in the living room. But she swears to this day it wasn’t her.”

“Mhm,” Theo hums from her end of the line. “And I’m Mother Theresa.”

“Not exactly helping.”

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